Deipnon
by Asteraceae
Summary: A coven in a bind seeks out the help of the Winchesters, only to find they're knee-deep in the same shit. It's a tricky business, working between temperamental demons and demanding angels. Implied Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I decided to pattern my witches based on AHS: Coven because, let's face it, the Supernatural witches are a bunch of pansies. I'll have an explanation for this, so it won't go from canon too much. No Winchesters in this chapter, but don't worry, they're a-comin'. Shoot me requests for pairings, because I've not made up my mind yet—but I'm leaning towards Michael or Gadreel, because they always need a little love.

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Mist curled around the edges of the river swamp, clinging to the trees and getting caught around the Spanish moss. The water was a murky green, disappearing right into the banks, a dangerous camouflage.

The setting sun was rapidly stealing all the light, but the three figures standing on the bank didn't move. They were dressed in all black, and all of them were women. Alligators were known to this part of the swamp, but they stayed away, giving them a wide berth. In fact, the only animal that came near them was a vulture, perched up high in the branches of a submerged Cypress.

A blonde woman floated face-down in the water, her pale hair fanning out like seaweed, fingers poking through the water like bloated fish. A knife was planted squarely in her back, the blade occasionally catching flashes of the disappearing sun.

"Should we fish her out?" One of the women whispered nervously, toying with the edge of her sleeve. She was petite, and Asian, and much younger than the other two.

"Go ahead and climb on in, then," the brunette woman standing to her left said. She had a hand on her hip, and was inspecting her black painted nails for chips.

"No," the redhead on the right decreed. "The gators will get her after we're gone. It's been over a week, there's no saving her."

"But maybe we should bury her or something? I don't know, it seems important," the Asian girl pestered, biting her lip and shifting from foot to foot. The brunette and the redhead traded glances, before the brunette laid a hand on her shoulder.

"It's better that she stays here," the brunette said gently, starting to turn the girl as the redhead stalked off through the rushes, the hem of her black dress trailing through the swamp mud. "We don't know who did this or why, so we need to pretend like we don't know what happened, just in case," she coached as they disappeared into the swamp, cutting back towards the road.

"Okay," the Asian girl reluctantly agreed, sparing one last look over her shoulder at the woman before the mists finally swallowed her again. With a quirked head, the vulture took flight, swallowed up into the darkening sky.

Only when the women were gone, far out of the swamp, did the gators begin to move.

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Deep in the Kirwin Wildlife Refuge in Kansas, something strange was happening to the birds. The park rangers had noticed it, and two were sat in a labelled truck, watching the birds flock on a large tree through binoculars. The tree must have been at least a hundred years old, but the amount of birds gathered on it were making it look small. They didn't make any noise, just gathered and sat, preening and rustling, a great feathered mass.

"Huh," one ranger said, putting his binoculars down. "They aren't fighting or nothing, so I don't know if we should do anything."

"Sure beats me," the other one agreed, taking another swig of coffee from his thermos. The biggest problem they usually had was off-season hunting and fishing, which was usually solved by imposing a fine.

"Maybe they're sick?" The first suggested, and the other shrugged.

"That's the biologists' problem, then," he said, before turning the key and starting the truck. Beady bird eyes stared at him, a couple hundred at least, catching in the headlights. It was downright spooky, the ranger thought, and was happy to drive away from it. He had to drive all the way back to Lebanon, and though it wasn't the farthest drive, he didn't need this preying on his mind.

Several minutes later, the birds scattered, and resumed normal behavior. No more was said on the matter between the rangers, but the incident stuck in the back of their minds, and they didn't like to linger around the tree.

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In the tall grey house on the edge of the French Quarter, behind the gate with the sign that read 'NEW ORLEANS FINISHING ACADEMY FOR YOUNG WOMEN', beyond the darkened rooms and out on the back porch, two of the black-clad women sat, holding mugs of coffee.

"This is getting out of hand," the brunette said quietly, not looking at the redhead next to her. "We need outside help. It's too dangerous for us to sit on it."

"What did Bel say?" The redhead asked, setting down her mug and folding her hands.

The brunette sighed, and pursed her lips. "He said to go to the Winchesters," she eventually said, obviously unhappy about it. "He knows where they are, and claimed they'd be able to help."

The redhead rolled her eyes. "He's also full of shit," she said.

"He's never lied to me before," the brunette shrugged, standing to go in. "If you go, I'll stay here. I'll protect Selena and the house."

"Fine," the redhead agreed. "But if they kill me, then everything is on you."

She sat for a little while after the other had gone in, gazing into the darkness though she couldn't see much farther than the railing. She wasn't surprised when a vulture landed at the edge of her vision, keeping enough of a distance. He swung his head to look at her from the side, rustling his wings.

"Tell me about it," she agreed, finally going back into the dark house.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean was jolted out of his sleep when his phone started blaring, vibrating noisily on the side table. He was always surprised when he got cell service in the bunker, but groaned when he saw the caller ID.

'666_'_

Like Crowley would let a simple matter like a lack of cell service stop him from reaching the Winchesters.

"If this isn't a lead on Metatron then it's a waste of my time," Dean growled, rubbing a hand over his face.

"So sorry, squirrel, did I interrupt your beauty sleep?" Crowley drawled, and Dean could just imagine him tilting back in a desk chair, looking annoyingly smug.

"What? How di- no, man, you fuckin' didn't," Dean recovered quickly, then stopped when he heard a scream in the background. "Where are you?"

"The sixth circle," Crowley answered casually.

"You're calling me from hell? How do you have reception?"

"Just because I'm boiling damned souls in blood doesn't mean I can't check my emails," Crowley said smoothly. "And there is, in fact, a reason I'm calling you, and it is not a waste of your time."

Dean rolled his eyes, flopping back into the couch. Fuckin' Crowley.

"There is a witch coming to see you," he said after a melodramatic pause, and Dean nearly threw his phone.

"You called me up to tell me some dumb bitch is looking for us?" He snapped, and Sam, across the room, looked up to watch him.

"Not just some dumb bitch, actually. A blood witch. This is descended straight from Salem, I've heard," he said, and Dean groaned.

"Why? And how? And why should I care? You have thirty seconds."

"I've heard she's coming for help, actually. A demon named Belphegor is bound to one of her coven, and apparently he told them to find you. Word travels fast down here."

Dean felt the beginnings of a headache dawn. "That doesn't tell me why I should care," he argued.

"You should care," Crowley drawled, pausing for some particularly loud screams. "Because Belphegor is quite a nasty piece of work. Utter bastard, and a complete prick. If he's concerned enough to send one of his to you, then the problem is likely a lot larger than can be contained by his circle, and will quickly become your problem."

"Not yours?" Dean asked, sourly. He hated witches, and he hated demons, and them working together was bad news all over.

"Not my division," Crowley said. "Try not to kill her." And with that, he hung up, and was gone.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, mildly, but Dean could tell he was concerned.

"We're going to have a visitor," Dean grumbled, standing and storming from the room. Sam stared after him a moment, then rolled his eyes and went back to reading an obscure manuscript on translating Enochian symbols.

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The redheaded witch showed up at sundown, just as Crowley said she would. She walked down the path that approached the bunker, and abruptly stopped right outside where the warding began.

She could feel it, tugging at her slightly, the way a windy day sucked you right through an open door if you weren't careful.

She took a deep breath, and stepped through. The feeling was immediate and her hair briefly stood on end, before settling again. She still felt slightly static, though, as if something would touch her and she would jump right out of her skin.

The core of her power was still there, though. Just laying down and waiting for a little while, like the gators when they were wallowing. They were there, just hard to see.

She continued walking, briefly holding her hand up to see which way the warding tugged her, and then going in the opposite direction. Sure enough, she turned suddenly and could see the face of it, like it popped straight out of nowhere. Before she could even knock on the door, it swung open, and she came face-to-face with Dean Winchester.

"You're the witch," he fairly snarled, and she managed to keep her cool.

"Yeah," she agreed, nodding. "I am the witch."

"Let her in, Dean!" He heard bellowed from inside. Giving him a delicate smile, she walked forward, and he swung out of her way, but followed close behind her. She soon found herself trapped between the two of them, hulking over her like massive trees or wild animals.

"I'm Augusta," she said, mildly, turning to take in the place. Pretty nice, for an underground lair. Cozy. "I need your help, but you already knew that I'm guessing."

"Why the fuck should we help you, sweetheart?" Dean said, looming into her personal space. Wow, they were tall.

"Because," she said, squaring up to him and looking him dead in the eye. "Someone's killing us, and even though we have a mutual understanding—" Sam snorted here "—y'all are gonna need us. We both know it, so _stop reaching for your knife, Samuel Winchester_," she finished, looking back over her shoulder and pinning Sam with a stare. He had the good grace to look sheepish, and raised both of his hands.

"I can guarantee you," Augusta said, sidestepping Dean's malevolent glares and placing herself delicately down in one of the large armchairs. "That if you don't lend us a hand now, this problem is going to end up right on your doorstep. You ain't that hard to find."

"I fuckin' hate witches," Dean grumbled to Sam as he pushed past him to go into the kitchen. Sam heard a beer being opened a second later, and gave a small, tight smile to Augusta. She perched like a queen in the chair, apparently completely at ease, and raised one pale hand. A fire roared to life in the hearth behind her, and Sam rolled his eyes.

This was going to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stared at Augusta.

Augusta stared at Dean.

Sam stared at the ceiling, wishing he could kill both of them.

"You ever gonna open your fuckin' mouth and tell us what's going on, princess?" Dean finally snapped, draining his beer and slamming it down. Dean was irritable and grumpy at the best of times, but Sam had never seen him this easily riled.

"I'm waiting for you to get it all out," Augusta responded mildly, finally breaking eye contact to examine her nails, as if this whole conversation was beneath her.

"Fuck you," Dean barked. "You and your bitch coven. I hate witches because you whores are gross and unnatural, so fuck you."

"Jesus Christ, Dean," Sam muttered, but stayed seated, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples

Augusta beamed at his outburst and sat up straighter, finally intending to fully participate in the conversation. She seemed used to hearing abuse hurled at her, because she wasn't phased in the slightest.

"Good!" She beamed, unfolding her hands and leaning forward across the table towards Dean. "Good. I'm glad you got that out. Now," she made a sweeping gesture with her hands. "That's out of the way. You know Metatron is on the loose and he's shut heaven. That isn't really any of our business, but somebody's been killing witches," she said, looking back and forth between Sam and Dean, suddenly all business.

This chick was fucking weird, Sam decided. She unnerved him a little, the way she could swing back and forth between friendly and stoic, silent and vocal, without any middle gears. It was strange, but he knew comparatively little about blood witches, only that they kept their distance from hunters and the rest of the supernatural community, which he guessed meant they had a self-preservation instinct a mile deep. So maybe this was normal? He wasn't really sure.

"Good," Dean said, folding his arms. He ignored the slight twinge of guilt he felt at ignoring deaths, because what did he care? He was a hunter, they were supernatural, end of story. He didn't care to think on how those lines had become blurred lately, instead choosing to see this without shades of grey. Black and white. Easy.

Augusta rolled her eyes. "If your friend Crowley hasn't informed you, no demons have been coming after us, because we keep a nice balance with them," she said, ignoring Dean's scowl at the reminder of their partnership with Crowley. It made his skin crawl enough already, he didn't need her throwing it in his face. He was hearing her out, though, which was the barest level of decency he could muster for her.

"We don't deal with the angels, though, because that's not really to our benefit, and they're fucking weird." Sam snorted, knowing that was an understatement. "The angels are fighting amongst themselves, the balance in the coven has been disturbed, and witches all over are turning up dead." Augusta raised her eyebrows to them, tossing her red hair over a shoulder. "We think it's Metatron," she said, turning to look at Sam.

"He's… upsetting something, something in the order of things. Something's changed," she said, lamely, trying to find the words to explain.

Dean and Sam stared at her like she had two heads.

She stared back, then flapped her hands as she spoke, as if that would make it clear. "When witches use power, there's a push and pull to it, because there's a balance in the way the world works," she said, trying to explain magic to someone who slaughtered anything remotely supernatural. "But there's been no push back, and that's dangerous, because without it we…. die," she finished, but of course 'die' wasn't really the right word for what happened. You kept pulling, and pulling, and eventually pulled out something that put a knife in your back or set you on fire, because every action had an equal reaction, and a witch pulling out that much power was pulling it out of some_where_ or some_one_ and that someone usually had to cut it off lest they be pulled straight off the face of the planet.

Magic was a tricky business.

"So… there's been a disturbance in the force? And you think Metatron's to blame?" Dean guessed, and Sam snorted again, only to be elbowed by Dean.

"Yes!" Augusta agreed, leaning forward, obviously relieved that he was getting it.

Sam nodded. "That makes sense. He doesn't really follow any rules, and I doubt he'd care if some random witches were dying. No offense," he added, looking to Augusta, who shrugged.

"So what do we do about it?" Dean asked, looking back and forth between Augusta and Sam, suddenly perked up and relaxed now that this meant he was back on the hunt. Something he knew about.

"Well, that is the question," Augusta mused, leaning back in her chair.

Sam had opened his mouth and was about to speak when the flapping of feathers interrupted him. Castiel, more agitated and wild than he had ever seen him, had flung his arm in front of Dean and was staring down Augusta with nothing but rage in his eyes.

Sam immediately jumped up, thinking that if any smiting went down, it might lose them a chance to get a tail on Metatron and also blood was really hard to scrub out of the carpet.

"Woah, hey Cas, steady man," he said, but was cut off by Castiel snarling. "What," he spat, not tearing his eyes away from Augusta, who sat perfectly frozen. Sam couldn't even see if she was breathing. "Is this demon whore doing here?" Castiel finished, shuffling more in front of Dean, who looked insulted at the implication. Augusta didn't look at any of them, her eyes trained somewhere far beyond the bunker's walls, totally still.

"She's here to help, Cas, back off," Dean said lowly, amazingly defending Augusta. If she was surprised, she didn't show it. She didn't even move when Cas's blade dropped into his hand, remaining perfectly still. Sam was reminded of a deer in the headlights, or a mouse frozen in front of a cat.

Cas stopped advancing on her, obviously listening to Dean. "I do not trust her," he growled, his voice low and rough.

"Yeah, man, it's fine, neither do I," Dean said hurridly, rising, and prying the blade gently from his hand. Sam was surprised, but pleased that Dean was suddenly revising his stab-first-questions-later approach

Nobody spoke for a long second.

Sam stared at Dean.

Dean stared at Cas.

Cas stared at Augusta.

Augusta stared at the wall.

"Well," Sam chuckled, voice tight and awkward in the tense atmosphere.


End file.
